


don't take a piece of my heart (i'll give you the whole thing)

by giraffingallday



Category: The Goldfinch (2019)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Valentine's Day, its just all softness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:06:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21850444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/giraffingallday/pseuds/giraffingallday
Summary: Their apartment is pink. There was most certainly no pink in it the night before. Only dull neutrals mixed poorly with anything Boris saw interesting enough to bring home. Now, though, the muted colours are drowned out by rows of pink construction paper hearts strung from wall to wall, flowers with the dirt and roots still attached in a big vase in the middle of the coffee table.
Relationships: Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 9
Kudos: 144





	don't take a piece of my heart (i'll give you the whole thing)

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry people keep reading my multichapter fics and i just keep fuckin starting new thing skaskld this is a one shot tho so no abandoning that ;)
> 
> my disclaimer is that i haven't read the book and ive only seen the movie once but ive been obsessed w these boys since and just had to write something out for them

Kitsey hadn’t wanted them, the green stones had reflected strangely off her skin - he remembers, briefly, that he had noticed it as soon as she’d lifted them up to look - in way that told him they aren’t  _ for  _ her. She’s ready with a hundred excuses as soon as she sees the way his face falls, that they are nice,  _ lovely, really _ , but not her stone, not her color. And realizes that yes, she doesn’t want them, but perhaps it’s because she doesn’t want  _ him _ .

That’s what brought him to the jewler in the first place. Well, no, it’s not. What brought him there was Boris’ newfound infatuation with any holiday he could get his hands on -  _ god _ , he was still recovering from national pie day; they got sugar sick on everything Boris had  _ insisted _ they make; and then, because they were such magnificently horrible cooks, something in the line up had them fighting for space over the toilet bowl until Theo gave up and vomited right into the sink.

Now Valentine’s Day was coming up and Boris had been running around at a slightly higher level of chaos than usual, rambling on about _romance_ of all things. Like either of them had a romantic bone in their body - _just one, Potter, eh?_ _Right here- fuck off, Boris._ It was amusing most of the time, except now he had to do something romantic, because it was _Boris_ , and he wanted him to, and they’d admitted that they were hopelessly gone for one another two years ago after pulling a lost painting out of it’s mystery, and fuck, as if Theo could ever tell him no.

And so, with a strike of brilliance, he found the kind of business he was looking for and laid the emerald earrings gently enough onto the counter that the man standing on the other side might understand their significance, “Could you make these into cufflinks?”

He gets the man to explain the process, assure him the stones won’t be harmed, that the earring casing can be maintained and returned to him. Once he feels less like fainting at the idea of walking out of the store without them clutched in his palm he does, business card with a pick-up date scribbled on it in their place.

Valentine’s Day comes just like any other day, and he’s disappointed to find he’s woken up alone. It’s earlier than usual for him, but Boris - who may never actually sleep for all Theo can tell - usually sticks around long enough to save him the drag of waking up alone, so it’s a little disappointing to stretch over sheets that have long since cooled off. He smiles to himself when he thinks of the little velvet box wrapped up in a pair of socks he doesn’t normally wear anymore, excited nerves fluttering like a bird fighting a short chain while he wonders if Boris will like them and then grinning wider when he imagines Boris would be just as excited over half wilted flowers, so long as they were from  _ Potter _ .  _ His Potter _ .

His disappointment is easily quieted when he gets up, stretches, and can hear Boris let out a litany of curses over something that’s happened outside the bedroom; decides to venture out to see what he’s gotten himself into, cufflinks tucked safely into the pocket of his sweats.

Their apartment is pink. There was most certainly no pink in it the night before. Only dull neutrals mixed poorly with anything Boris saw interesting enough to bring home. Now, though, the muted colours are drowned out by rows of pink construction paper hearts strung from wall to wall, flowers with the dirt and roots still attached in a big vase in the middle of the coffee table. Something smells like it’s burning in the kitchen so he ducks under the decorations - he needs to remind Boris that he’s not the tall one anymore - and goes to see what all the fuss is about.

He’s hit suddenly with the idea that there’s another version of his life where this isn’t happening; the thought makes his throat grow thick when he sees Boris, black curls like ink against the stark pale of his neck, nursing a thumb - presumably what all the swearing had been about - in his mouth while he pokes at whatever he’s cooking. It’s hard to stop staring, but he does eventually blink and that gives him a chance to notice what the fucking idiot is  _ wearing _ \- a black t-shirt and bright white boxers that are covered in equally bright red hearts, still creased from being folded up in their packaging - he spins around and reveals that the black t-shirt is a  _ tuxedo graphic tee _ and grins so wide that Theo actually thinks he looks stunning, “You are up early! Was going to surprise you, breakfast in bed, is romantic, yes?”

Theo manages to stop making heart eyes at Boris long enough to take in the room - a disaster, left over from a day too many of putting off the dishes piled in with Boris’s mess of pancake batter, “Very, you’re gonna set off the smoke detector.” He tries to pretend he isn’t blushing and thinking it  _ is _ entirely and stupidly romantic in all the right ways and goes to the other side of the room to open a window.

Boris grumbles, flicks off the stove because they’re both prone to distraction around each other, and comes over to crowd against Theo’s back, arms around his waist and nose buried against his back, “No good morning kiss?”

It makes his heart twist in his chest, that feeling of  _ too much _ that comes when you mix Boris and love together, and turns around so they can face each other, “You don’t even like romance.”

“Maybe, but kissing is good.” Boris is smiling up at him, all that mirth and awe that comes with the way he takes in life filling up his eyes and Theo leans down easily to press their lips together.

Boris has always been an enthusiastic kisser - there’s hardly anything he ever does half-assed - and it only takes a second before Theo is drowning in him. The edge of the counter he’s been led to digs painfully into his lower back but he can hardly focus on it; if he had two-percent more of his brain available for actual thoughts, he’d be grateful Boris had the foresight to turn off the stove.

He’s aching in his sweatpants and Boris is fiddling with the hem of his sweatshirt when a knee slots between his legs and he groans, rocking against it. It’s enough to feel a grin of satisfaction curl across the lips pressed to his before they start trailing down his jaw; Theo remembers the gift hiding in his pocket abruptly and puts an inch of space between them, “Sorry, wait.”

Boris, always gentle with him, always patient, stops immediately, looks at Theo with heavy concern as if there isn’t a standing invitation between them and he might’ve crossed some kind of line, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong.” He assures quickly, pulling away from the counter to fill the gap he made, pressing his face in Boris neck to kiss the skin there apologetically, “Can we eat first?”

His suggestion actually seems to be considered for a moment, the small stack of pancakes that were made before are burnt, but Theo can see from here that they’ve all been shaped into lopsided hearts, something Boris is no doubt ready to show off. He shifts a little while waiting for an answer and leans more of his weight against the other because he woke up alone and would like some closeness. Something about it spurs Boris on, and he curls a hand around to slip under Theo’s shirt, feeling out his skin and teasing the waistband at his hips, “Something I would like to eat more, eh?” He teases, letting his fingers curl to drag his nails over the skin of Theo’s lower back, making him shiver and roll his eyes.

“For fucks sake, Boris.” He huffs and stands up properly, digs his hand into his pocket to pull out the box, “It was supposed to be for later, a surprise.” He holds it out in the palm of his hand, feeling sheepish suddenly, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Boris stares down at the box, eyes wide as dinner plates, and his mouth slowly spreads to encompass most of his face in a smile, “For me?” Theo nods, eyebrows raised to urge him on, and Boris grabs the box, opening it and crinkling his eyes at the cufflinks inside, “Beautiful... Potter, are these-?” His voice has gone soft, something Theo doesn’t get to experience often, and he relishes in it.

“Yeah.” He feels heat grow over his cheeks, up his ears, he can just barely remember showing the earrings to Boris all those years ago, in Vegas, while he was just petering on the edge of another blackout. Of course he remembered them, even turned into something different. Of course he did.

He’s too caught up in his own awe over Boris’s endless bounty of care for him to notice Boris’ eyes start to well up, doesn’t realize he’s crying until he speaks and his voice catches, “You would give these to me? After what I did?”

Theo knows he’s talking about the painting, knows that he never really forgave himself for it, and is overwhelmed himself suddenly with the dawning of how significant this gift really is. He hadn’t thought about it, it had felt that natural, these meant so much to Theo, who else could he trust with them except for the person he loved? “Of course.”

And then Boris is kissing him again, putting the box safely on the counter and dragging him to the bedroom while their breakfast sits forgotten. They almost make it to their room too, except when they stumble through the living room Theo’s head catches on one of the strings of hearts and tears it, and Boris laughs, tugs the still connected end of the decoration off the wall so he can drape it around his neck like a scarf, and pushes Theo onto the couch, it’s as far as they get.

Boris gets to bring him breakfast afterall, after they’ve both curled up sated with each other long enough to get blood back to the rest of their bodies he disentangles himself from them with a hard press of his lips against Theo’s cheek, and returns shortly with cold pancakes and orange juice, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Potter! Breakfast in couch, better than the real thing.” 

The sugary syrup mixes strangely with the orange juice to leave a weird taste in his mouth, and Boris kisses him more than either of them eat, and his mother’s earrings are safe with the only person in the world he should have ever tried to give them to, and Theo feels  _ wanted, _ and thinks that Boris is wrong, this isn’t better than the real thing; this is it.

**Author's Note:**

> as always thank you SO much for reading and i really appreciate ur comments and kudos!!


End file.
